


wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour

by oretlumiere



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: (the flashback is non-graphic), Autistic Juno Steel, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Hair, Hair is a big point in this, Hands, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Juno is nonverbal for the duration of this fic, Other, Peter is just a concerned boyfriend, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Touch Aversion, as well as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23406898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oretlumiere/pseuds/oretlumiere
Summary: Juno is having a hard day with his trauma. He thinks about hands, and their significance in his life. Peter is trying his hardest to help.It's difficult to adjust to life on the Carte Blanche with a different living space and different people when new trauma has just been brought up not long before. Juno's hair is very important to him, and taking care of it. He's working on trust.
Relationships: Diamond/Juno Steel (Past), Peter Nureyev/Juno Steel
Comments: 24
Kudos: 247





	wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with a lot of very heavy topics, please mind the tags! This follows the general premise that in Monster's Reflection, repressed trauma memories involving Takano were brought up. Juno is trying to process that as well as big life changes, and it's hard sometimes. Take care of yourselves, and fair winds xx
> 
> Title is from Richard Siken's book, Crush.

Clothes were never Juno’s friend, on days like this. The collar of his too-big t-shirt seemed to choke him, and even though he _knew_ they didn't, he could swear his sweatpants clung to his legs in the worst way.

He didn't want to be at breakfast that morning. He knew he looked like shit. He knew they weren't used to a Juno who could shut up for more than two minutes, let alone one who couldn't talk if he tried. He knew they all saw how he avoided Jet—sitting at the opposite end of the table, and even refusing to look at him. They all very smoothly pretended they didn't notice all of this. He wished Nureyev would spare him the same courtesy. 

He could feel him staring. Juno glanced up, to reassure Nureyev he was fine, but he quickly looked down to his coffee again when he saw who was seated next to him. 

The thing about Jet wasn’t the way he acted, or how he felt about Juno. It was his size. Juno knew he was non-threatening, hell, Jet never even touched him when it wasn’t necessary. But sometimes he was just so _big_ and terrifying that Juno forgets. Forgets, and remembers things he’d rather not.

Jet’s hands were so large, nearly swallowing the silverware he was using, and making Juno feel sick deep in his chest. He needed to get away, but he was rooted to the dining chair beneath him. Leaving would be too suspicious, and then Buddy would try to _talk_ to him about it, and he wouldn’t be able to answer, and she’d get mad, and— _no_. He’d have to stay at the table. And he has to stay _present_ , too, he reminded his slipping mind. 

He didn’t stay present for very long, once he was alone in his room without the need to focus on something. Hours went by like that— in the limbo between a numb dream and panicked reality.

Juno wasn’t sure when he got to the bathroom, but a knock at the door had him snapping to realization. 

“Juno?” He couldn’t say anything—frozen where he stood on the cold tile. “You haven’t seemed your best today, would you perhaps like a bit of company in there?” It was Nureyev. He knew Nureyev was safe, was familiar, so why did he shake at the question?

He managed a weak two knocks on the bathroom door. A ‘no’ if he were squeezing his hand. Nureyev seemed to understand. “Okay,” he heard. Was it gentle? Pitying? Annoyed? Angry? Juno’s brain barely had time to spiral before Nureyev added, “That’s alright, you can come to find me if you need.” He lingered a moment longer. Juno thought he heard footsteps retreat, but he was too out of it to know for sure.

Juno let out a hitched breath. He was still shaking. He stumbled into the shower, sliding down the wall when his trembling legs gave up on holding him. His breath hitched again. They were coming awfully fast. He was running out of air. He couldn’t breathe. The shower floor was old carpet, now. He needed to be clean, he needed to turn on the water. Large, strong hands were grabbing at him. He wanted scalding hot water, he wanted to scrub his skin raw, he wanted any trace of the past to be washed away.

Juno clapped a hand over his mouth as a sob tore through him. He squeezed his eye shut.

Gone, was the bathroom of the Carte Blanche. Gone, was the last three decades. Juno was four in a tiny apartment in Halcyon, and rough hands grabbed at his tiny frame. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, but that didn’t matter, he was being good, good was what he was for, all that mattered was that he was doing good.

The water from the sink faucet burnt his scalp. Juno barely felt it. If anything, the sting reminded him of where he was. His neck ached from how long it had been craned to reach under the tap.

Which wash was this? Third? Fifth? Juno didn’t know how long he’d been at it, he just knew he had to wash his hair. His hair felt the dirtiest, it always did. Maybe if the water was hot enough, if he scratched at his head hard enough, it would drown out the feeling of hands grasping and pulling at his hair. Big, powerful hands. Hard enough to hurt. Did he only remember those hands being so large? Or was he just so small, then?

A soft knock at his door made Peter look up from the book in his hands.

“It’s open,” he called as he put the book aside.

The sight his eyes met a moment later had his heart breaking inside his chest. Juno, his Juno, shifting uneasily in the doorway. He was wearing the same clothes as he was that morning, though his hair was dry and frizzy, now. Peter’s eyes shifted to the multitude of products clutched in Juno’s hands.

“Why don’t we take this to the bathroom, my love?” 

He could see how Juno’s eye tracked his hands, how he was hesitant to be inside Peter’s room. It took him a second, but he nodded and stepped into the hall. Peter followed, and led them both to the ship’s one, cramped bathroom.

Juno quietly arranged his bottles and tubs on the counter—in order, Peter hoped—and sat on the stool he had moved in front of the mirror. To watch him, Peter realized. He wished he’d watched Juno do this enough times to get it right and not just damage his hair further. 

Peter untied his eyepatch, set it on the counter, and reached for the small pile of hairties. When he pulled back behind Juno, he glanced at his face in the mirror. Just as he guessed, Juno’s gaze was following his hands. As gentle as he could, he separated the thick hair in front of him into a few sections. 

Juno looked exhausted, all the fight drained out of him. Probably along with the tear tracks that ran down his face. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen and Peter’s heart squeezed for him.

He applied all the goops and serums and creams Juno brought, his hands remaining soft and tender with Juno’s hair. All the while, Juno continued to switch between watching Peter’s hands and his own feet. Slowly, gently, he took the silk hair wrap and tied it around Juno’s head in an attempted imitation of the style he had seen it in so often.

Finally finished, Peter stepped away to lean against the wall, letting Juno have a moment and his space. When he stood, he had begun to tidy up the counter. Peter didn’t stop him. That had always been a thing, with Juno. Cleaning. He’d never asked, but he guessed it was nice in that it was methodical. Juno liked things like that. Cooking, braiding hair, folding. He supposed he understood.

Once suitably satisfied with the gathering of products next to the sink, Juno turned to him. He found his hands, squeezed them once, and retreated down the hallway. Peter watched him go and made sure the door to his room closed before he headed to his own. He’d done as much as he could for Juno, he knew, but that didn’t help his worry.

He couldn’t get into bed. Even looking at it had his stomach turn. Juno couldn’t sit in the bathroom either, though. There was only one on the ship, and Juno had already spent too much time there. So he sat against the wall and stared at his hands, or the cold metal of the room, or the rug Rita insisted on putting on his floor. He was grateful for it, now. He’d been on hard floors for too long that day.

He tried not to think about it all. He succeeded for all of about five minutes. His thoughts drifted to hands, as they often did. Jet’s hands. Jack’s hands.

Big and powerful—strong, terrifying hands. Hands that gripped his hair, thick fingers that covered his mouth. Hands that pushed and pulled his tiny body wherever they wanted.

Sarah’s hands were cold, that was what he remembered most. The bones and tendons jutted out, and her knuckles were too prominent. They tugged at his hair too hard to twist into braids, and left so many of the scars that still marked his skin.

Diamond’s hands were cruel. Beautiful, too. They had long, sharp, perfect nails. Always maintained. Nails that scraped his scalp, and hands that yanked on his hair when they wanted him to shut _up_ , Juno, and _listen_ for once. Hands that left split lips and cleaned the same wounds up moments later.

Juno always liked Benten’s hands. They were just like his, and Benten let him play with his fingers when he wanted. Those were the only hands he liked touching him for a long, long time.

Then, of course, there were Peter Nureyev’s hands. He had soft hands. (Juno’s seen his lotions.) Long fingers that twirled knives around as effortlessly as they twirled around the curls in Juno’s hair. Warm hands that gently cradled his face, and brushed his skin with such softness and, sometimes, reverence. Hands that held his with all the surety in the world, that squeezed his to bring him back into his own body. Hands that wiped away his tears, and ran through his hair so, _so_ gently. It felt different, when Nureyev’s hands were in his hair. He liked it. 

Those fingers that stole jewelry and plucked food off of Juno’s plates. Hands that moved wildly, expressively, when he spoke, that touched Juno with so much care, and so much love. His hands, that would flutter about Juno when he was hurt or upset. They were always fiddling with something, or tapping on something, or twisting the myriad of rings that always adorned his fingers. 

Juno spent a lot of time watching Nureyev’s hands. He let him. Didn’t make him meet his eyes, understood he was listening, even if he wasn’t looking at him. Nureyev’s hands had never hurt him. 

Juno was still staring at his own hands. Often shaking, where they used to be so steady. Scars, and what remained of old, faded tattoos. Short nails, and the skin ripped up around them.

He didn’t sleep for hours into the night. He must have finally tired himself out, though, because then he woke up to his horrendous alarm. His back ached where he was slumped in the corner of his room. Time to face another breakfast meeting, and another day.


End file.
